Kate and Brenner were returning fire, but they were probably low on ammunition from the shootout at the Crow Fortress and they weren’t on full blast. The firing from the cave stopped, and Kate and Brenner ceased fire. It suddenly became quiet.
I was lying flat on my back on the rock, and I couldn’t see Brenner or Kate, but I’d be able to see anyone who appeared on the ledge above me, and I had my M4 on full automatic across my chest, ready to fire at anything that moved.
Only one AK had been firing and I assumed that was The Panther. The other person that Nabeel had mentioned must have been the woman. I don’t know who she was-girlfriend or wife-but like all women around here, she was expendable, and al-Darwish had used her to draw my fire. Nice guy. And now The Panther was wondering if I was dead or alive. The name of this game is patience, deception, and surprise, and I was good at two out of three.
The minutes ticked by, and I was concerned that al-Asshole was flanking around to our sides, or worse, he could be hightailing it up the hill, heading for someplace far away. But if Zamo was in a good spot, he should be able to see that kind of movement and take care of it. Still, The Panther had the immediate advantage of the higher ground.
When you get hit, you don’t always feel it at first, and I didn’t, but now I could feel the pain where the bullet grazed my left hip, and the throbbing in my chest where the Kevlar had absorbed the second hit. I also felt some warm blood, but it wasn’t gushing. Still, the hip would start to stiffen up when the initial shock wore off and the body said, “You got hit, stupid.”
Another minute passed, and I was starting to think that maybe Brenner or Kate had been hit, but I couldn’t think about that now. And I couldn’t lie here all night waiting for The Panther to make a move-or a full retreat. So I took a deep breath, sat up quickly, and fired a long, sweeping spray of rounds up the slope. Bullets ricocheted from the rock as I dropped down, slapped another magazine into the M4, rolled down the slope, got up, and repeated the recon by fire.
But no one returned the fire and it got quiet again. I reached for another magazine in my bush vest and discovered that I was out of ammunition. Shit.
I drew my Colt.45 automatic and lay very still. I couldn’t figure out what this asshole was up to, but he’d gone from panic-fire to very cagey silence. Or he was in the next province by now.
I yelled out, “Bulus! Asshole! Shithead!”
He didn’t respond to his name, so I moved as far as I could along the ledge, still on my back, which was the only way to see what was above me without raising my head. I yelled out again, “Asshole! I’m talkin’ to you, Bulus. You speak English?”
No response.
Okay, time to do it. I yelled, “Cover fire!” and I charged up the slope as Kate and Brenner, off to my right, opened up with their M4s. I zigzagged across the flat ledges toward the mouth of the wide cave in front of me, popping off a few rounds from the Colt. Brenner and Kate were firing full, long bursts of suppressing fire into and around the cave, and the bullets were ricocheting around me, but I wasn’t drawing any return fire, so the bastard was either gone, ducking, or dead.
I got to the overhanging ledge, jumped over the dead woman, then shoulder-rolled into the mouth of the cave. I lay still on my side and peered into the darkness.
I realized I was lying on a very funky blanket. Some moonlight was penetrating the space under the ledge, and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could see that the carpeted floor was strewn with what I guessed was camping equipment. So this stinking shithole was the lair of The Panther, the mastermind of the Cole bombing, the head of Al Qaeda in Yemen, and the target of the greatest power on earth. I mean, I expected something like this, but now that I was here, it was hard to believe that this crap hole was where Bulus ibn al-Darwish, al-Numair, The Panther, lived and plotted and ruled from.
Mr. al-Darwish pressed the muzzle of his AK-47 against the back of my head and said, in perfect English, “Throw your gun on the ground. Now!”
I threw the Colt.45 a few feet away.
He had backed off so I couldn’t grab the barrel of his rifle, and he said, “Hands on your head.”
I put my hands on my head. Where were Kate and Brenner?
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Your worst nightmare.”
“No, I am your worst nightmare.”
“I’m taking you back home, Bulus.” I reminded him, “Your momma’s waiting for you.”
He gave me a kick in the back of the head and asked, “How many people are with you?”
“More than are with you. Everyone you know is dead.”
He had nothing to say about that, and there was a long silence. Then he asked me, “How did you find this place?”
“A soaring eagle told me.” I translated for him, “Altair.” He didn’t respond to that, so I went into my police mode and said, “You’re trapped, Bulus, and you’re going to die unless you surrender.”
“Do not use my given name.”
Shithead? I said, to make it official, “You’re under arrest.”
He thought that was funny and asked, “What is my arresting officer’s name? That’s my right as an American citizen to know your name.”
Asshole. I told him, “John Corey, Anti-Terrorist Task Force.”
“So you finally found me. Or have I found you?” He asked, “Where is your wife, Mr. Corey?”
“Where’s yours? Dead?”
I thought that would send him over the edge and he’d try another kick, which would not go as well for him as the last one, but he didn’t react. Maybe he had more wives.
He asked me, “Do you think this cave has only one entrance? Do you think I’m stupid?”
Yes, I do think you’re stupid, and yes I thought this cave had only one way in and out. But I guess it had two. Shit.
He let me know, “I will be on the other side of this hill in ten minutes, you’ll be dead, and anyone who follows me through the cave will step on a pressure mine and be blown up.”
Holy shit.
“So I will say good-bye to Mr. Corey, and to Mrs. Corey in absentia.”
I was certain he wouldn’t fire, because he knew there were other people out there who would come charging in, firing-so he was going for his jambiyah to do it quietly.
I spun around on my buttocks and as I did I saw that he had his knife in his right hand, his rifle was slung, and his left hand was reaching for my hair. My legs caught him below the knees and he lost his balance and fell sideways.
I pulled my jambiyah, which he didn’t see as he scrambled away from me and unslung his rifle.
Before he could level it, I was on top of him and I pressed my full weight down on him. He thrashed around, trying to get his rifle into a firing position, but I wasn’t going to let that happen. He’d dropped his jambiyah, but now his right hand reached out for it, and he got hold of the handle and brought the tip around and buried it into my back. He realized it wasn’t penetrating, and he brought it up again to stick it into my neck or head.
I gave him the old knee in the balls, which refocused his attention, then I put the curved blade of my jambiyah under his full beard and on his throat and said, “Remember the Cole, asshole.”
Our eyes met for a second, then I pressed hard and drew the blade across his throat, which opened his jugular vein and both carotid arteries, causing his warm blood to spurt over my hand. I told him, “You have the right to remain silent.”
I kept at it, sawing through his flesh, windpipe, muscles, and tendons until I got to his spine, which I separated with the blade, then I kept going until the blade hit the dirt floor.
I sat up, drew a long breath, then grabbed his hair and held up his head. I said to The Panther, “Payback, you fucking bastard. Payback for the men on the Cole, payback for the men, women, and children you murdered, you piece of shit. Payback-”